


Children of Dust and Ashes

by Admiral



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, F/M, M/M, Organized Crime, Spies & Secret Agents, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-08 00:10:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11634840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Admiral/pseuds/Admiral
Summary: They called him the Glacier. Cold, methodical, efficient. No wasted motions, bullets, or breath. Inexorable.He certainly moved that way. Not shifting an inch where a centimeter would do, no accidental brushes, touches, movements. A perfect dance of math and poise. Graceful as ballet on razors.Ronan only thought that if he died tonight, he wanted it to be on cheekbones that could cut, and eyes the color of ice chips.Or: Adam is a super spy and Ronan is gay.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rating, title, and tags subject to change.
> 
> I made Adam a bit different in this AU. There will be backstory.

They called him the Glacier. Cold, methodical, efficient. No wasted motions, bullets, or breath. Inexorable. 

He certainly moved that way. Not shifting an inch where a centimeter would do, no accidental brushes, touches, movements. A perfect dance of math and poise. Graceful as ballet on razors.

Ronan only thought that if he died tonight, he wanted it to be on cheekbones that could cut, and eyes the color of ice chips.

The music of the club was overwhelming on the best of nights, and this was not the best of nights. The entire city was on edge, and it seemed they were using music to compensate; it was louder, bassier, that it was on nights Ronan didn’t pick the music.

Then the Glacier was in front of him. It seemed as if he seeped stillness. The lights flashed less, people stood away, a draft of cool air hit Ronan, but it was possible Ronan was biased. There were no shortage of beautiful men in this club, his club, and there was no questioning that Ronan could have any one of them, but there was something, always had been something, that had attracted him to danger. 

In this club there was always danger, the kind that comes with meeting places, crossroads; spies and assassins, hit men, mercenaries, black market dealers, people looking for trouble and people looking to avoid it.

The Glacier was different. He didn't promise violence so much as he promised to be the one to end it. 

The Glacier stared at Ronan, his black pea coat contrasting with the barely dressed people around him, with Ronan’s own threadbare black tanktop. Ronan appraised him for a moment, wondering, sickly, how close he could get to brushing the man’s cheekbones before he lost an arm. Then jerked his head, stood, and didn’t check if the world's most dangerous spy was following him.  
______

Ronan’s office was dark by design, tasteful lighting that spoke of expense, cluttered with random knick knacks, expensive art, and items that bordered on occult. The effect was ruined when the overhead lights were on, looking like a junk shed, but in the dimness the layers of objects and shadows had the same appeal as the Glacier himself. Dark, beautiful, sinister; something to lose yourself in.

Ronan leaned against his desk. He wasn’t in the habit of speaking first, but it still came as a surprise that he didn’t have to start the conversation in this particular instance.

“I’m looking for someone. I’ve heard the Greywaren is the one to come to.” His voice wasn’t as cold as Ronan expected, it was flat, unremarkable. Purposefully so. His hands were clasped behind his back, looking at ease in the twisting shadows of the room.

“Normally this is where I say I don’t know a fucking Greywaren, but we both know that’s a waste of time.” Ronan scoffed, the Glacier said nothing. “I don’t give out tips, I collect info, useful things. Protect my city.”

The Glacier inclined his head, “They say if you’re looking for the devil, you come here to make a deal.”

Ronan grinned, sharp as a knife to the jugular. “They’d be right. What can you give me in exchange?”

“Once I have my information, I can leave.” His hands were still behind his back, he looked at ease in his stillness, but Ronan knew enough about dangerous men to realize that the ones that wasted energy weren’t truly dangerous, and that the Glacier hadn’t wasted any.

“What does that do for me?” he growled, crossing his arms. He would have rolled his eyes, but that meant taking them off of drinking in the details of the other man.

“You said you protect your city. It’s safer without me in it.”

“Cocky bastard.” he spit, “objects, information, or ass. Don’t give me this bullshit.” 

The Glacier frowned. It was miniscule, but Ronan caught it. “Fine. I’m prepared to offer money.”

“Not fucking interested.” Ronan answered, immediately. It was only barely not cutting the other man off, “I’ve got plenty of that. I told you my terms.”

“Fine. Your man, Kavinsky, has been hitting on your little brother, Matthew. Blonde. I don’t believe his intentions are pure.” The dryness of his observation sat at odds with his carefully procured voice, as if his mouth wanted to wrap around the words differently. 

Ronan knew that a younger version of himself would have stormed out, let his rage get the better of him. The Ronan that dropped out of high school, got involved in street racing and underground clubs would have found Kavinksy, beaten him to death and left his body on the hood of his stupid fucking car.

The adult Ronan knew better ways of hurting someone.

“I think we can work together.” he said, and the Glacier’s answering smirk felt like an agreement. Felt like pack ice and a deal with the devil.  
_____

 

Adam had always said he wanted to get out of Henrietta, but found it ironic that his job, the only job he was good at, was based in Langley, Virginia. Perhaps he hadn’t been specific enough in his daydreams.

The office he met his superior in was nothing special, large bookcases showcasing books that had never been read, a large desk with nothing but a computer and the file being pushed across the desk to Adam.

“What we’re really interested in,” Whelk said, oily and awful as he ever was, reeking of onions, “is something we only know as Cabeswater.”

Adam flipped through the thin file, listing names and potential leads, background research by their think tank, a summary of his assets and assistance, scarce as always. “What is Cabeswater? Person, place, drug?”

Whelk shot him a look, which rolled directly off Adam. Whelk didn’t want to admit he was afraid, so he compensated, threw his desk job around, his title, his connections, as if any of that mattered to Adam.

“We don’t know. We know that the black market wants it, and that North Korea, China, and Russia are starting to take an interest. We want boots on the ground first.”

If Adam were less controlled, he might have bitten his tongue, or even corrected Whelk on his assumption of what ‘the black market’ was, but he simply didn’t have the time or energy to correct Whelk on everything he didn’t understand.

“Everything you have is in the brief?” He asked instead.

Whelk nodded, which was helpful, and added, “Don’t screw this up, Mr. Parrish.” which was not.

Adam left without another glance. Some people just couldn’t be helped.  
_____

On the flight to London, Adam put in his headphones and thought about what he knew. He wasn’t allowed to take his files with him, they weren’t even allowed to leave Whelk’s suite of offices, but Adam had a good memory.

Cabeswater was, as far as Langley knew, either a place or a person, perhaps some form of production service, that produced objects unique in their efficiency and abilities. Langley had no examples, nothing but stories for him to consult, but they were fantastical. One claimed a gun that left no traces, another said a mask that was able to reshape at will, look like anyone, potentially gain access to anywhere.

None of the objects had been found, or even verified to exist, but the sources were independent, reputable. If this Cabeswater was making these things, whether it be a group or an individual, they were clearly brilliant. Clearly something that needed to be examined.

Adam sat back, watching the ocean spread out beneath him through the small window. The only lead had been a place in Ireland, the last place an object had been reported.

Adam sighed, accepting a ginger ale from the flight attendant. He was rarely sent out on such little information, but he supposed his reputation for being the best at what he did did eventually have to come with a draw back.

______

The club had not been his first choice, nor his third, or even on his list of preferable options. They were loud, and dirty, and there was no good way to take out an ear plug if he did intend to get into a conversation, so he had to accept the pounding music drilling into his one good ear.

The club owner, Ronan Lynch, son of a late mob boss, was sitting in a booth that looked almost like a throne. Shaved head and features that could only be described as wicked, he surveyed his club until Adam became visible; then Lynch didn’t blink.

Adam knew he had been expected. He had put out his feelers for Ronan a few days before, fishing for the Greywaren first, before connecting it to the name Ronan Lynch. He wouldn’t have been much of an information broker if he hadn’t known that Adam was coming. 

He stood for a moment, Ronan clearly sizing him up, but it didn’t bother him. Adam hadn’t learned to be dangerous easily, but he was. An Irish mobster didn’t stand a chance, even if he was stupid enough to throw down.

There was a nod, and a press of people Adam carefully avoided, and they were in the office. It was dark, and full of things that Adam wanted to poke through, wondering if any of Cabeswater’s work was sitting in the clutter, inches from Adam’s hand.

Ronan himself leaned back against his desk, accent a strange mixture that Adam recognized as Irish with a hint of a Southern drawl as they swapped information. 

“I think we can work together.” Ronan said, and Adam recognized the gleam in his eye. It was a junkyard dog, blood and dirt on your hands, the heat of the muzzle of a gun.

Adam grinned back, a sharp, papercut thing, then said, “I’m looking for Cabeswater.”


	2. Chapter 2

Ronan wanted to pace, he always had too much energy, but that would have meant circling the Glacier, and Ronan didn’t want to find out what happened to people who stood behind him for too long.

“Cabeswater is a fucking myth, I can’t help you.” He said, instead, fingers clenching into fists and relaxing again, for lack of anything else to do. “My dad used to tell me bedtime stories about it. Like fucking Sesame Street or some shit.”

Instead of looking irritated, the Glacier only looked pensive, hands still loosely clasped behind him. “Was it specifically an Irish fairy tale?”

“What? No. I hadn’t heard of it besides my dad and this new shit.”

The Glacier looked at him, coldly unamused, “Then it’s a mob term.”

“If it was don’t you think I would have fucking heard of it? It’s something my dad made up to get us to go to sleep, and someone else just came up with the same name. Monkeys and typewriters and shit.”

“How do I know you aren’t just lying to keep your friends safe?” He said friends with a pause, with significance, like he meant brothers, like he meant family, like he meant men and women who stepped up in the wake of his father’s death to take care of his mother.

“Because I don’t fucking lie. I wouldn’t be in the information business if I did. And I’m not part of the mob.” He didn’t owe the Glacier the last piece of information, the tip about Kavinsky was only worth one question, but he wasn’t biased, he checked his sources, his facts, and he hated when people doubted him.

“I’ve heard you’re independent, yes.” The Glacier said, calmly. “Something to do with the oldest Lynch.”

“We don’t say his fucking name here, so watch your goddamn step.” Ronan growled.

The Glacier stood still as a photograph where someone else would have shrugged. “I’m here for Cabeswater, do you have any information other than a useless thought experiment?”

Ronan rolled his eyes, “I have what I gave you. Someone said they got a mask from Cabeswater, can impersonate anyone, but they weren’t quiet, that’s probably what fucking brought you here. Go talk to them.”

The Glacier only stared, “What was Cabeswater, in the myths your father told you?”

“Magic ley line shit, they were kids stories man, something about a man making his wife and trees taking revenge. You know Irish stories, all about nature and goddamn fairies.”

The Glacier gave one, curt nod, and made to step out.

“Got something else for you.” Ronan wasn’t sure if it was altruistic, or to keep staring at the Glacier longer, watching his head turn and the way the shadows played on his cheek and neck, till it was hidden by his peacoat, “You’re not the first one in the city. Koreans, and Russians got here before you. You’re the first one to come to me though.”

The Glacier didn’t react. Ronan hadn’t expected him to. “Thank you for the information. We’ll be in touch, I’m sure.”

His exit was dead silent, only because Ronan desperately tried to avoid thinking about touching him.

It took most of his concentration.  
_______

Adam could most certainly blame his current profession on Blue Sargent, in a number of ways. The least important was her step-father, the professional hitman, who had never actually technically married her mother, but was a step-father nonetheless.

He wondered where she had ended up lately. His guess was Syria, or perhaps Venezuela; somewhere she could do the most good. Her cell phone rang out on the other end of his call, surprisingly loud in the stuffy silence of his hotel room. He thought about how their brief and disastrous first date had led to the only good relationship in his life, and a friend whom he owed his life and current success to.

He hung up before he left a voicemail. She would know who was calling anyway, only four people on the planet had her personal cell phone number, and his was the only one that ever changed. 

It had taken Blue for Adam to snap out of his life, as it was. His father was better not thought about, and he was out of his house by the time he met Blue. He had been taking a break biking home, weather hot and muggy, a little light headed from his small lunch when she had stepped out and handed him a glass of water and offered to put his bike in the employee lot while he cooled down. Adam agreed, glad she hadn’t offered more than water and an understanding that he didn’t need help, just a quick break because of the weather. It was something that could happen to anyone, her tone said, she would have done this for anyone. That was just the kind of person she was.

It helped that Adam was mildly fascinated with her, her pure vibrancy and life. The way she stomped from table to table, her ripped shirt that she couldn’t give less of a damn about. Since he had moved out, he had slowly been finding that he was turning ghostly. He hadn’t missed the trailer, but at least he had been acknowledged there, albeit violently, and grudgingly. Alone, he realized he would go days without talking, without someone looking at him and seeing a person.

He wasn’t alive, just barely surviving. It had almost hurt to look at Blue and see someone unapologetically living, breathing like she had the right, eyes sharp and posture confident about how much she deserved the space she was taking up. So opposite of everything Adam had ever been taught, everything he had ever learned about himself. He had been drawn to her.

It wasn’t any surprise, now, that their first and only date had gone so poorly. Blue was alive, so much more than Adam had been, and she deserved something better than a shadow. 

Adam had been grateful, still was, that she had accepted his apology, that she had been the one to realize that Adam needed a friend. He was less grateful for all the pranks she had pulled on him, but he knew he wouldn’t be where he was without her.

He debated calling again, but didn’t. If she didn’t answer the first time, she wasn’t going to answer the second time. He dialed Gansey instead.

Predictably, he picked up on the third ring. Adam had watched him once, the first ring was to get his attention, the second ring was to pick up his phone and parse who was calling, and the third ring was to realize that yes, he did actually need to answer it. It was a wonderfully predictable routine, and Adam affectionately pictured him doing it while he waited for the final click.

“Hello, Professor Richard Gansey.” He had students, and had no way of recognizing any of the numbers on Adam’s burner phones.

“Gansey.” He said. He knew most people would think he was as unaffected as always, but Gansey and Blue could be relied on to pick up his minor inflections. (Once he had terrified an informant into giving him information by taking a phone call about how to dispose of a body and another about what kind of cake he thought Gansey would like best within a minute of each other. The man said later it had been his tone for both conversations, that they were exactly the same.)

“Adam! Good god man, it’s been a year and a day. Blue and I have missed you.” When Blue had drug Gansey home, Adam had asked her which Disney prince her sex doll had been modeled after, and she had smacked him with a throw pillow with giraffes on it. It hadn’t been her fault that Gansey only spoke like he was more comfortable knighting men than dealing with day to day life.

“It has been a while. Is Blue with you?” He pulled out a small pair of scissors while he spoke, clipping at a loose thread on his jacket.

“I regret to say she isn’t. Last I heard she was on her way to Venezuela.” Adam silently approved of his guess being spot on, and Gansey continued, “Do you need to speak with her?”

Adam made a disapproving noise, “Not as such. I was going to ask to get in contact with her moms, and you.”

“Oh.” Gansey’s tone was warm, flattered. Not smug, not something Adam would hate on principle. Gansey was simply happy to help, something that had taken Adam years to get used to. “What can I do for you?”

Adam, as always, was torn on coming to Gansey for information. He knew his wife was an eco-terrorist, but Adam wasn’t sure if he knew about her smuggling or mercenary work, and he didn’t want to get him involved if the information Adam was looking for was dangerous. He knew Adam worked for the CIA, that he sometimes needed strange pieces of information, and that he couldn’t talk about his work, but he didn’t know exactly what he did. Gansey was an independently wealthy Welsh historian, who took his teaching job as seriously as he did his research. 

But, in the end, he asked. Gansey had resources and time he didn’t. “I need to know what you can find on an Irish myth, called Cabeswater.” he checked his nails, force of habit after all the times he’d had blood caught under them, “I don’t know how popular it is, and the only lead I have is that it’s potentially Irish.” he paused for a second, “You don’t need me to tell you to be careful.”

Adam could almost picture the gleam in Gansey’s eye, the challenge of a project, and research. It was something he loved about the man, his quiet dedication to tracking down every piece of the puzzle.

“I’ve never heard of it before. I’ll get back to you as soon as I know something. Can I call this number?” He was polite, as always, but Adam got the feeling of winding up a toy car too tight, holding it back while the wheels waited, forced to stillness. Gansey with his teeth in a mystery was pure potential energy, and even over the phone Adam could feel the tires waiting to go, phantom memory of plastic toy cars skittering over his hand.

“You should for a while. I’ll call you if it changes, so you’ll have it.”

Gansey wished him a good night, said goodbye, absently, and Adam could hear him clicking away at his computer as he did. He hung up, hoping that he hadn’t gotten one of his oldest friends in trouble.

With nothing to be done until one of his leads came back, he got ready for bed. The hotel was comfortable, not lavish, but the mattress wasn’t lumpy. The sheets were clean, and he was tired, but he still couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes he saw lights on wicked features, burning blue eyes, and the sharp hooks of a tattoo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Blue and can't wait for her to show up.
> 
> Sorry not much happens. I'm trying to do this right.
> 
> Completely unbeta-ed, so please, please point out any typos!

**Author's Note:**

> More to come. It's late for me. Please tell me about typos!


End file.
